Sickly Soldier
by elfmaiden4legs
Summary: ****Sherlock is ill with a cold, at least everybody thinks its a just cold. Even John couldn't have predicted how sick his best friend really is. With his own tragedy to deal with Sherlock Holmes is no longer the most important person in his life, but what will happen to Sherlock now that he finds himself hopelessly alone in his time of most need **WARNING: mention of miscarriage.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Sherlock's throat hurt, his head throbbed, and his chest ached. He coughed gently so as not to aggravate the pain in his already throbbing ribs and diaphragm, and the air rattled painfully inside his lungs, before throwing the damp bed sheets aside and easing himself slowly out of bed. The cool air encircled his warm body like a whirlwind, making him shiver, and every bone in his body ached. His bladder protested against the painful pressure of its full load, but movement had made his head spin, and as he lowered his leaden body back down onto the mattress he realised that he'd made a terrible mistake. For as long as he'd remained upright he'd still been in with a chance of making it to the bathroom before his body naturally divested itself of the liquid waste which had accumulated throughout his past few hours of sleep, but now that he'd lay back down again he found himself too weak and exhausted to get back up. The simple act of manoeuvring himself up off the bed and then back down had exhausted him, and as he lay alone struggling to catch his breath the air caught within his lungs and sparked a violent coughing fit. The hacking spasmodic motion which wracked his chest had the undesirable effect of releasing the build-up of urine in his distended bladder and Sherlock groaned as he felt the hot liquid running down the insides of both his legs, soaking his pyjama trousers and seeping into the bed sheets.

He'd thought that he'd been dealing with nothing more than a simple cold when the symptoms had first presented themselves a few days before – dull and boring – and even John had had to agree that it was probably nothing more than a virus when he'd last seen his friend three days since. He'd advised the consulting detective to drink plenty of fluids to keep himself hydrated and recommended complete bed rest for the following few days – promising to check in on his friend the following morning.

Sherlock had for once followed the doctor's advice – well as far as drinking plenty of fluid was concerned, which was what had led to his unfortunate predicament now he realised – but he'd been unable to shut his mind off for long enough to get anything in the way of a decent few day's rest. The anticipated visit from John never came – if it had the doctor would probably have noticed his friend's rapidly deteriorating condition and realised that he was more seriously ill than either of them could have initially anticipated, but Sherlock's condition had remained unchecked for days, and when Lestrade had called asking for help with his most recent case late into the previous afternoon the consulting detective hadn't been able to resist the thrill of the chase – literally so, as it had later transpired.

Sherlock didn't exactly blame John for any lack of care or foresight on his part – he realised that he was no longer the most important person in the man's life, if indeed he ever had been at all. It hadn't been very long since tragedy had struck the household – since Mary had lost the couple's first child – and even Sherlock had enough tact and diplomacy to realise that they were both still grieving for the loss of their unborn baby. It had been a terrible unforeseen tragedy which had shaken the foundations of the Watson family, and even Sherlock couldn't help but be moved by the pain he'd observed in John and Mary's eyes throughout the weeks following the awful event. If John had taken his eye off the ball as far as his friend was concerned it was only because he had more pressing issues on his mind.

He had eventually phoned to check on Sherlock early the previous morning, but despite his mounting sickness Sherlock had done his best to try and convince John that he was fine, and doing much better than he had been a few days before – as much as a result of his own pride than anything else. In his heart though he knew that he was anything but, even before responding to Lestrade's call. By the middle of the middle of the previous afternoon his pain had started to worsen on an almost hourly basis, and by the time he'd returned to Baker Street in the early hours of that very morning his late night trek through the deserted city streets had begun to take its toll. He felt positively dreadful, and was finding it difficult to breathe.

What John didn't know couldn't hurt him he reasoned however, despite what people may have thought of him Sherlock didn't want to hurt John and Mary any more than they already had been – favouring the lie as preferable to the truth – and as expected his friend had been too wrapped up in his own troubles to recognise Sherlock's deception.

Without really realising it himself however if there had been a time when Sherlock had been in dire need of John's medical expertise this was it.

When he tried to recall later he wouldn't be able to remember nor even begin to fathom how he'd managed it, but after lying on the bed struggling to catch his breath for what felt like close to an hour – his urine sticky and his clothes clinging to his clammy skin – he finally managed to muster enough strength to drag himself up out of the warm cocoon of his bed and in the direction of the bathroom, using the walls for support and to propel himself forwards, with the room spinning the whole time. He managed something of a quick wash to try and help make himself feel a little more human again, but all it did was remind him of how angry he was with his own failing body for letting him down in such a repulsive fashion, before being sick in the sink. Upon returning to his bedroom he then forced himself to put on fresh pyjamas and made a feeble attempt to change the bed sheets, but the effort of walking even the short distance from his bedroom to the bathroom had weakened his already fragile body significantly and he collapsed back on top of the bed exhausted.

He must have fallen asleep because the next thing he became aware of was Mrs Hudson shaking him awake – the pain every jolt of her gentle hand caused him was an unimaginable agony, and breathing was by now becoming an immensely difficult act. The cold air was like a razor-blade to his aching lungs, and the sweat poured from him profusely as he shivered beneath a blanket. She'd brought him tea, but finding himself unable to drink it she instead opted to sit with him for a while.

"Why don't you let me call John?" She pleaded with him as she looked upon Sherlock's pale and shivering form, his breathing wheezy and his throat rasping and sore. Her voice sounded uneasy as she spoke, and she failed to disguise the concerned expression upon her face, but Sherlock shot her a sharp look – a steely glint within his eyes – and shook his head.

"No," He barked in a voice which dictated his absolute authority on the matter despite the sickness which had ravished his system and reduced his pathetic human body to a useless bacteria-ridden mass. "I don't need John," he declared, "he has his own life now and I will not be seen to go running to him every time I encounter a slight complication in mine. I am not an idiot. I coped perfectly fine on my own for years before John Watson became a part of my life and I can do so again now."

"But you're not getting any better." She implored him.

"Mrs Hudson," He snarled, his patience now wearing dangerously thin. "I am currently in no condition to stop you sitting where you will in your own flat, although I would much prefer it not to be in my bedroom, but if you plan to persist in this harassment of me then I really must ask you to just leave me alone!"

The landlady simply sat upon her chair, observing Sherlock thorough the gloom as his eyelids grew heavy and began to slowly close, but clearly unmoved by his impassioned words she showed no sign that she had any intention of leaving.

Although she did eventually leave him alone it was not before the consulting detective had finally fallen asleep, and when he next awoke it was dark, and he was on his own. Although at least the pile of soiled sheets he'd discarded in a damp and smelly heap in the corner of the room had been mercifully removed he observed.

It was the uncomfortable burning, like gravel, as the cold air caught in the back of his throat which had disturbed him, and he was suddenly thrust unceremoniously back into consciousness by the choking upheavals of his chest and the dry retching which resulted from the cramps in his stomach. Sherlock tried to call our for assistance but couldn't keep his breath for long enough in order to form words, and in any case the flat now appeared deserted, making his attempts at calling out for help useless.

There were no sounds of footsteps on the stairs, no sound of Mrs Hudson pottering around downstairs, nobody heard his distress, nobody came – and as panic began to set in he began to regret sending Mrs Hudson away.

Too weak to sit up he resigned himself to lying where he was, feeling as though he was slowly suffocating and waiting for the violent coughing fit to pass. He felt one of his ribs suddenly pop and doubled over with the sudden searing blanket of white hot pain which momentarily paralysed him and made breathing an unbearable effort. With each new breath he took he now felt as though a dagger were being driven deep into his chest cavity and as the room suddenly began to spin at twice its previous speed his vision began to blur and fade around the edges, and he wiped the dribble from his lips and chin with a tissue.

Sherlock Holmes didn't see the blood which stained the white membranous-like paper in his hand as he did so. There was no gentle hand to rub his aching back tell him that everything was going to be alright, nobody to hold his cold and clammy hand as his whole body was wracked with pain. He was completely alone when he finally lost consciousness, and everything went black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

By the time Mrs Hudson even thought to place the call to John Sherlock had already been unconscious for two hours.

"Why didn't you call me sooner?" He asked as she immediately showed him up to Sherlock's room, and he was shocked by the state of the sleeping detective when he saw him. John had only seen his friend three days before but his condition had obviously deteriorated rapidly since then.

"I wanted to." Mrs Hudson explained. She was clearly beside herself with worry and grief, and evidently blaming herself for the state Sherlock was now in. John couldn't help but feel that she was in some way responsible, but she couldn't be held entirely accountable for what had happened, he had after all seen his friend only days before and had failed to press him upon the subject of what he'd thought had been just a simple cold. Sherlock had said that he was fine, and he'd believed him – he'd taken the word of a man who'd still claim to be fine even if his head was hanging off – and he inwardly cursed Sherlock for downplaying his symptoms.

"You know how stubborn he is." Mrs Hudson explained. Her voice broke as she spoke, and she pulled a tissue from her sleeve to dab at her nose and eyes. "He didn't want to worry you… he said that you had enough to contend with what with… well… you know… what happened…" She faltered. "He said that it was just a cold and that you didn't need him to worry about on top of everything else."

John suddenly spun around to face the landlady as she dared to touch upon a subject which was still very raw and ignited a nerve within his heart – uncharacteristic fury burning in his eyes. She sobbed, and as he looked upon her anguished expression and the pain in her eyes his own gaze suddenly softened.

This wasn't her fault, of course, it wasn't anybody's fault he realised, it was just one of those things that happened. But why did it have to happen to Sherlock? And why now?

"It's alright Mrs Hudson." He sighed, trying to smile and patting her on the shoulder reassuringly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap. I know that this isn't really your fault."

The older lady nodded, as she too struggled to force a smile, which didn't quite make it as far as her cheekbones as she blew her nose.

"John?" Mary called to her husband from the bottom on the stairs. They heard the front door slam, and then the patter of her gentle footsteps as she hurried to join them. She entered the bedroom carrying John's case, but stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Sherlock.

"Oh God," She exclaimed.

John meanwhile had made his way over to his best friend's side, and could now hear his painfully shallow and laboured breathing. He could see the sweat glistening upon his face, and observed the man's complexion which wasn't just pail but notable for its complete lack of colour.

Mary put a gentle hand on Mrs Hudson's shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly as she whispered something in the long suffering landlady's ear, and aiming one final concerned look in Sherlock's direction the woman who'd frequently been heard to voice protests of 'not your housekeeper' but took care of her two much loved tenants as well as she might if they were her own flesh and blood, hurried from the room.

"What did you say to her?" John asked.

"I just asked her to put the kettle on." She smiled mildly as she made her way over to her husband's side.

If the situation hadn't been so serious he would have almost certainly kissed her – she never failed to amaze him with her seemingly bountiful tenderness and compassion and John often had to wonder at his own good fortune that he should have been blessed with such a wonderfully tender and beautiful woman as she.

Instead he opted for a grateful nod, and a meek but admiring smile in Mary's direction, before turning back to Sherlock.

"Can you help me sit him up?" He asked her. "We need to try and ease his breathing."

Mary nodded, and as John gently levered Sherlock into a sitting position she got ready to slide herself onto the bed behind him in order to support his meagre frame. She did so with remarkable ease and elegance and once she had comfortably positioned herself behind the unconscious man John then eased Sherlock back into Mary's arms. She accepted him within her soft embrace, cradling his head protectively within her hands and stroking his messy mop of hair comfortingly as she wiped the sweat from his brow and placed a gentle peck upon his forehead.

John meanwhile had delved into his medical case and pulled out his stethoscope and a thermometer. He decided to check Sherlock's temperature first, and despite the fact that from this close proximity to their friend both he and Mary could feel the heat radiating from his body, he was still somewhat alarmed to discover that it was dangerously high at 40.

He showed the reading to Mary who upon seeing the number met John's gaze gravely and instinctively pulled Sherlock closer towards her. John found it remarkable that not only had she seemingly accepted his best friend upon their first meeting – which had been fraught and not the way he would have ideally chosen to introduce Sherlock to his fiancée – but that she'd rapidly grown to love and respect him too – no small accomplishment considering the fact that Sherlock Holmes was hardly the easiest man to get on with at the best of times – and he marvelled at how quickly the two of them had become friends. Sometimes, John thought, it was as though she'd always been there, and there were days when he struggled to recall a time when she hadn't been a part of his life. She's slotted so perfectly into the lives of the two men – complimenting rather than conflicting with their dynamic.

She was after all the one who'd brought the two of them back together again following Sherlock's return, convincing John to give the man a second chance instead of driving them even further apart – as other women more prone to jealously may have done – and encouraging him to forgive his friend for what he had done. She'd taken to Sherlock after only a few hours of knowing him, and he could see in her eyes now just how much she really cared for the detective too.

John's concern for Sherlock was mounting however as he unbuttoned Sherlock pyjama top, placing the cold stethoscope to his sweaty chest and listening intently to his heart and lungs – without so much as a peep from the consulting detective to give any indication that he was at all aware of their presence. Usually Sherlock would have protested profusely about being examined, but not tonight.

He took note of his fluid filled lungs and rapid heart-rate before moving his fingers slowly down to his wrist to check his pulse – which he noted was also far too fast – and as he palpated Sherlock's ribs and diaphragm carefully he felt the bone shift slightly beneath his gentle touch.

Sherlock's reaction was instantaneous, and he suddenly screamed and flailed out in pain, his breathing becoming immediately even more laboured and erratic. Mary was thrown backwards against the bed as Sherlock's whole body instantly stiffened and shuddered with pain in her arms, and as she instinctively reached a hand out to steady herself she brought it down upon a soft, cold, wet mass.

She frowned, clutching what felt like soggy tissue paper between her fingers and as she curiously brought the wad of white pulp up before her eyes in order to take a closer look she gasped and recoiled in alarm and natural disgust as she observed her discovery.

"John," She exclaimed, a look of concerned horror upon her face as she held the blood stained tissue out in front of her husband, "look at this."

The doctor's heart sank as he saw it, and he sighed, realising the seriousness of Sherlock's condition. All the early signs were far from encouraging. They had no way of knowing from where the blood had come but John deduced that based upon Sherlock's current difficulty breathing and the massive build-up of fluid he'd heard upon his chest a pulmonary bleed caused by a violent coughing fit was the most likely explanation – further supported by the fractured rib he'd discovered whilst palpating Sherlock's side.

"I can't do anything for him here." John concluded, getting urgently to his feet, and Mary watched him as he pulled out his mobile phone and started making his way towards the bedroom door. Time was not on their side, but was now very much of the essence – they had precious little of it to waste. "This is a hospital job I'm afraid." He explained. "Stay with him Mary whilst I call an ambulance."

Mary then watched her husband quickly hurry from the room and heard his footsteps on the stairs before her attentions were drawn back to Sherlock – who suddenly started to shiver in her arms. He took a long, wheezy breath and shuddered at the pain this caused him. As a nurse all of her instincts were screaming for her to do something to help him, to ease his discomfort, but under the circumstances all she could do was her best to offer reassurance and comfort and hope that her helpless gesture reached Sherlock from through the unnatural darkness which currently held him.

"Oh Sherlock," Mary smiled sadly down at the unconscious man in her arms once John had gone, stroking his sweaty locks of dark chocolate hair away from his clammy forehead, "what are we going to do with you hey?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

When Sherlock returned to consciousness the first thing he became aware of was a strong smell of disinfectant which burnt his nostrils and caressed the back of his throat with an acrid chemical aroma. His face was sweaty, the air was warm, and he could feel the perspiration clinging to his top lip like beads of salty, early morning dew. There was a strange beeping in the background which seemed out of place for Baker Street, and an uncomfortable – although not painful – numbness to the back of his hand, like a bee-sting. Furthermore his whole body appeared to be in the constraint of some sort of unseen battle – his throat stung, his head throbbed, his chest ached and his ribs twinged unpleasantly with each intake of breath.

_Oxygen mask, heart monitor, IV line_ – he deduced.

He must be in hospital then he realised – and judging by the way he was currently feeling he was probably there as a result of some sort of infection – how very dull, he thought, how very ordinary.

He let out a weak moan as he tried to move, and suddenly became aware of just how badly his whole body ached. There were voices muttering softly amongst themselves from somewhere in the room with him, but they stopped as he let out this small protest of pain, and as he struggled through his drug induced haze to try and open his eyes he felt a presence by his side, and a soft hand slip into his.

"Sherlock?" A man's voice spoke softly – the consulting detective recognised it immediately – John. "Sherlock can you hear me?" His best friend asked.

The warm hand within his own squeezed it reassuringly – Mary, he smiled – and he did his best to squeeze hers back. The gesture was weak but he hoped that it would be enough to let them know that he was slowly crawling his way back to them.

"Don't worry, you're in the hospital Sherlock." John calmly explained – as though he hadn't been able to work that much out for himself. "Try not to move around too much. You're liable to still be very sore – the doctor's currently have you on some pretty strong anti-biotics, and they can knock you about a bit."

"What am I doing here?" Sherlock asked as he reached upwards with one weak hand, forcing his tired eyes open as he lifted the oxygen mask away from his face – but John quickly replaced it.

"No Sherlock, you need to keep that on!" He explained. Sherlock looked up at the fuzzy silhouette of his best friend, before turning to Mary who was sitting quietly beside him. There were tears in her eyes, and as his vision began to stabilise slightly and he found himself better able to focus he noticed a tiny moisture droplet escape from one pink eyelid and roll down her pale cheek, leaving a small, wet trail of diluted mascara against her white canvas of skin.

"You haven't answered my question." Sherlock croaked, and recoiled from the burning sting in the back of his throat as he spoke. He looked to John before turning back to Mary. "What am I doing here?" He repeated.

John sighed – he looked over at Mary for support and Sherlock could tell that he was angry. He always seemed to look to his wife for support and encouragement when he was angry or feeling frustrated – it was as though there was something he saw within her soft face that calmed him – but Sherlock could tell that his anger wasn't solely directed at him. There was an internalisation of the blame he felt himself, which although he tried to hide it was evident within his sad and troubled eyes.

"Double pneumonia Sherlock!" John exclaimed, doing his best to keep any trace of his agitation out of his voice – and failing miserably. "I can't believe that you didn't know how ill you were!"

"But I didn't." Sherlock protested weakly. He was beginning to realise now why John had told him to keep the oxygen mask on – his chest crackled uncomfortably as he breathed in, and the sharp pain in his ribs made his chest tight and breathing difficult. He coughed, and failed to disguise the anguished groan which escaped him as a sharp pain shot like a bullet out of a gun down his one side. Mary stroked the mop of Sherlock's motley curls away from his face and cupped his still far too warm cheek in the palm of her hand comfortingly.

"I thought it was just a cold." He wheezed. "You agreed with me."

"Yes," John acknowledged, "I made a diagnosis based upon a preliminary examination and the symptoms you described. You failed to inform me when your symptoms started to worsen. I mean for God's sake Sherlock, two cracked ribs, a fever of 40, and a set of lungs which sounded like ruptured bubble wrap."

"Are you really comparing me to a form of parcel packaging John?" Sherlock frowned. "Because if you are I can think of some far better metaphors than that."

"Well that's the one I am using!" John snapped. "Tell me Sherlock, just answer me this," He said, shaking his head in his exasperation, "just how much more would it have taken to convince you that you needed help?"

Sherlock looked at him through sad and tired eyes, and Mary turned to her husband with a silent plea upon her face for him not to be too harsh on his friend. Sherlock may have finally woken up after days of being in the hospital but he was not out of the woods yet and still clearly far from well. John was angry, she could understand that, but she also knew that most of that anger was directed towards himself, not his friend who was currently lying in the hospital bed before him. He blamed himself for not spotting the seriousness of Sherlock's condition sooner, but that was not Sherlock's fault, and it wasn't fair of him to take his frustrations out on him either.

John sighed, feeling his whole body relax, and as he took another deep breath he felt the tension slowly trickling from his body, flowing from his stiffened shoulders, down his arms and out through his fingers, to be replaced by a renewed sense of calm and relief.

"You've been unconscious for five days now Sherlock." John sighed and the consulting detective could see that his best friend was struggling to maintain his composure as he began to explain. "Three of those you've spent in a drug induced coma hooked up to a ventilator. When Mrs Hudson called me your lungs were so severely compromised that you could barely breathe for yourself. Left much longer and you would have almost certainly died. You should have told me how ill you were last week." He looked down at his friend with an outpouring of mixed emotion in his dark eyes – anger, concern, frustration, sympathy, and fear – and with that one beseeching look Sherlock could also see the pain in his best friend's eyes. He'd done everything he could to protect John, and yet he'd hurt him anyway.

"But I honestly didn't know." The detective implored. "At least I didn't when I saw you last week." He faltered – Sherlock Holmes never faltered, betraying the full extent of his deception. "Besides I thought with… with well… you know… what happened…" He looked to Mary, a note of apology upon his face, "I thought you had more pressing issues on your mind, you didn't need me to worry about on top of everything else."

There was a strange sound, resonate of a tiny whimper, coming from Mary's direction as he said this, and he felt her warm hand slip back into his and give it a tight squeeze. Sherlock looked to John who appeared to have been momentarily struck dumb by this unexpected revelation. He stood frozen in shock for a moment before rapidly recovering himself and taking the empty seat at Sherlock's bedside.

"Sherlock," He sighed, and the detective noticed that his best friend's voice shook slightly as he spoke. "We've already lost our baby, I don't want to lose my best friend again too."

Sherlock looked at him, a look of bemusement and a rare note of apology in his eyes. His chest burned, and as he opened his mouth to say something in response to John the air caught in his throat sparking another violent coughing fit. His chest was wracked by a series of painful spasms and he ripped the oxygen mask away from his face and struggled to sit up as John immediately got to his feet.

"OK, come on, sit forward." Mary soothed, helping him to sit up and rubbing his back soothingly as Sherlock continued to cough.

"Here, sip some of this," She offered, as she handed him the plastic beaker of water from the bedside table and held the straw still for Sherlock to purse his lips around it and take a few tentative sips of the cold liquid in between the spasms that wracked his chest. John quickly handed him a tissue before casting a quick glance over the various monitors, still closely monitoring Sherlock's heart rate, pulse, and blood oxygen levels, but seeing nothing to cause him too much alarm relaxed slightly. The violent coughing fit finally eased, and Sherlock removed the tissue from where he'd been holding it tightly pressed up to his lips, in order to limit the emanation of saliva, to see that it was stained with a patterning of crimson blood. He looked to John, an expression of helpless horror upon his face.

"Yes, well…" The doctor hesitated. "It's alright Sherlock. Some residual bleeding is to some extent perhaps only to be expected. It'll take your lungs a while to heal properly, but we'll keep an eye on that."

Reassured by John's comforting words Sherlock appeared to relax, and the doctor watched as Mary helped his friend to lie back down on the bed, before gently replacing the oxygen mask over his mouth and nose. The consulting detective was pale and sweating and as John approached he noticed just how exhausted he now appeared to be, and realised that the coughing fit must have been enough to almost completely drain him – only serving to highlight just how weak Sherlock still was. Once he was sure that his friend was as comfortable as was possible under the circumstances, and that his breathing had returned to a near enough normal rate however, he sat down upon the edge of the bed – Sherlock's tired blue eyes looking up into John's resolved dark ones.

"Now listen to me you idiot," He leaned over his friend's prostrate form, his tone determined and his expression set and serious, "here's what is going to happen. You are going to stay here until you are strong enough to be discharged, then you are going to come and stay with me and Mary until I, and only when I, think you are well enough to return home, upon which time I will stay with you for the first few days to make absolutely sure that you are fit to be left alone – I am never trusting your word on anything ever again!"

"There's no point arguing with him." Mary smiled as with this Sherlock opened his mouth as though he was going to say something in protest. "We've already talked about this whilst you were still asleep and we've both agreed that neither of us are going to budge on the matter."

"Well how long is that likely to take?" The consulting detective demanded to know – a few weeks of complete bed rest and he felt quite sure that he would go thoroughly out of his mind.

"Well," John replied, "normal recovery time for pneumonia can be anything upwards of six weeks, but you've been pretty seriously ill for the past few days so possibly longer. We're just going to have to play it by ear I'm afraid."

"For God's sake!" Sherlock growled – this was obviously not what he had been wanting to hear.

John and Mary simply looked at each other and smiled.


End file.
